feels nauseous and disoriented.
Rather than a safe space, the room feels overwhelming and suffocating.
He almost stumbles into the chair. Checks himself; leans back against the cushion with as much nonchalance as he can muster.
Barely a word spoken.
Jesus it’s hard already.
`Are you right?’
Solicitous, but not overly so. She is not an intrusive presence. And if he were able to feel anything now it would be gratitude for that.
For the first time, he focuses on her face. Which is angular but not unattractive. Slightly olive skin, short hair, hazel eyes.
Dangly earrings which seem to catch the light. They are distracting; he resists the impulse to ask her to take them off.
`I’m fine’.
Off to a dishonest start.
`You said on the intake form –’
She is looking at him directly but it is not unnerving as he had thought it might be.
` - that you are experiencing panic attacks? How frequently? And what are they like?’
Straight into it, no preliminaries.
But for that, too, he is oddly grateful. Why exchange small talk when she already has the basic details?
Putting into words what he experiences is a big ask though. Not least because it means acknowledging what he now realizes he is still finding it hard to accept within himself.
A silence it is impossible to fill. Golden dust specks dance in the air.
Her earrings gleam like talismans.
`How often would you say you have them?’
How often? When don’t I experience them?
My whole life has become a panic attack.
`Oh – on and off throughout the week’.
Did she raise an eyebrow? Should he tone it down?
`And what are they like?’
What are they like?
Completely disabling. I’m a basket case. Have to pull over to the side of the road, sometimes can’t drive for thirty minutes.
`It’s like - ‘
How could he describe them, even if he wanted to?
`They’re – not pleasant’.
A rueful laugh.
Her eyes are directly on him again. But again it is not intrusive. If he could tell her, he would this time.
`I need –’
She pauses; sounds almost apologetic.
`I just need to get a sense of what it is you experience. I know it’s hard. And that it is certainly not pleasant. Do you sweat?’
`Yes’.
No hesitation now.
`Shake at all?’
`Yes’.
`Have trouble breathing?’
`All of the above’.
`And where are your thoughts? Are you aware of thinking anything? Of anything specific?’
Too early to go there.
`Not really, no’.
A shrewd look.
She doesn’t buy it.
Some more talk, seemingly inconsequential. Except that it can’t be; the context precludes it.
He is likely revealing himself all over the place.
Well that’s OK. That’s what I’m here for. I should say as much as I can say.
She is making it easy for him; she is implicitly helping him to relax. Some of his reserve is melting.
Some of it.
And then the session is over.
Hey, where did that go?
She is booking another one. Puts on little reading glasses; they make her look older.
How old is she? Late thirties? Forty? Around my age.
And her smile is warm.
`So see you then, Ryan’.
Those glinting earrings.
But he doesn’t mind this time.
And if he were to tell her, to the extent that he can, what would she do?
Does she really want to see my fragility?
To witness a gibbering mess? But he is beyond `big boys don’t cry’.
This goes deeper than that.
Memories of cowering; of absolute, abject terror. But little to attach them to.
Have I made things up?
Because I am certainly faking competence.
But it wasn’t always like that.
Why can’t I keep holding on? When I’ve been doing that for years?
2
`Coffee smells good’.
`Gotta have it’.
`Wish I could stop for some. But you pay big bucks if you’re late back to the pre-school’.
`Yeah, I remember. We’re in the wrong industry. See you tomorrow’.
No we’re not.
This work is fascinating.
But she can’t stay to argue the point. Not that anyone here would seriously disagree with her.
This is an industry where you have to love what you do. Pay rate notwithstanding. Despite the poor financial remuneration and the constant risk of burnout, there are riches in this field that
